to gone to earth
in the every
to slip beneath
the fen in early
cross the finger
crest the blood
twitch at glisten
of toothsome blade
cut the stars
with hands flint
all fallen
turn our eyes
to the island
apples of the
reddest shade
she ivory waits
in every way
those days where words
lose all meaning in
a dizzy haze of dreaming
and fingers trace lines
of morning dew across
your pale skin under
the rise of the sun
slip to dark water
fatigued of dream
watching branches
play with sunlight
& shadow above to
drift, oh drifter
to eversleep
i can't think in strawberry
so i do not know that mind
my thoughts are all unami
fingers to lips to arm to heart
drifting that ocean storm again
acceptance of the taste i am
i root, now
i sun
i river oak
through
smudge away
smudge away
wash away
stain
i paint, now
i slumber
i stone sit
through
i river oak
through
how many ways can you
disguise depression before
it folds back on you
like an injured toenail?
echoes in the pond
ripple only so far before
a tidal wave falls
i shadow as maiden
i shadow as lake
stone waters under
of granite my eye
pock and pit
chip and ash
fleck and form
all bone at song
i blood as my earthing
i blood as my weir
catch acorn when thorn
at river we heart
A fog had descended on camp. It happens at times and, when it does, the fog reflects the flames in such a way that the immediate surroundings appear aglow but the campfire is quickly swallowed by the thick fog standing a few dozen yards away. I did not expect anyone to find me tonight as a result of being well within the betweens. So I warmed my hands and contemplated the thorns still visible on one side of the clearing: daggered things that would have screamed of a sepsis incurred within hours of being pricked by their sharp tips.
The weald likes to keep its secrets. I may be the nominal warden of this place, but that does not mean that I know anything more than I need to about the darker spaces within. Of course, if there were need of the blackthorn’s protection, I would find I could slip within the hedge’s folds like a chickadee or wren. The weald protects its own as much as it wards.
That is when a familiar and small voice spoke in my left ear.
Hey, they said. Thought you could stand some company.
(more…)
underwater flowing
over silt and stone
rub skin, stream wash
rub mud, you and me
make land, this flesh
make river, this blood
rub wash, stream skin
rub silt, me and you
can't you hear them crying?
can't you hear their scream?
flesh and blood and silt and stream
spirits in the night—
originally posted 23jan2021
I am taking a short break from blogging and have scheduled a few older poems to fill up the empty spaces in the interim.
mistwalking the waters
she strode, one foot before the next
both eyes set forward
across that mystic lake
that raven-haired nyneve with
her dress flowing back
flesh pale even against the fog
originally published 06aug2021, w/minor edits
I am taking a short break from blogging and have scheduled a few older poems to fill up the empty spaces in the interim.